


Do your hands, they still bleed

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Smut, christmas 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5343449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ballet is Natasha's happy place, even if she's not sure whether the memories are really hers. </p><p>Good thing James knows the difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SO SCARED. This is my first full-length BuckyNat and there are so many phenomenal BuckyNat's out there, OH MY GOD GUYS. 
> 
> All my love to AtLoLevad/thewintersoldierdisaster who flailed over this with me for days. Consider this for you, your stupid stressful finals season, and today. Go kill it.

Ballet has always been Natasha's happy place.

She's never sure if it's real or something the Red Room put into her head, but whichever way it goes, it's something she has since claimed as hers.

(She's not sure why she always buys two tickets though. It's not like she would even consider inviting Clint, and no one else is really a ballet person. Sure, Steve'll put up with just about anything she drags him too with good grace and even Sam's surprisingly willing to let her drag him places, but this? She doesn't want to risk sullying her precious ballet with people who can't appreciate it.)

This year, she settles into her seat with a little more gratefulness, a little more appreciation for the fact that six months ago, there had been the serious potential that she'd never have this again. Sometimes she still has nightmares about it, she and Steve standing on the edge of that island, watching the people beneath them grow smaller and smaller.

This is not the place for nightmares.

Not those ones anyway.

No, these nightmares are different. Flashbacks of brutal practices that flicker between ballet and murder, memories of the aches in her muscles, the marquee signs and the bright red of blood inching across the studio floor.

She gets caught up in it as she tends to do. Arabesque and pleé, leaps and lift. Strength in her legs, strength in her partner. But there is, of course, enough of the Widow in her that she feels the moment someone takes the seat next to her.

Her spare ticket.

Her breath stutters in her lungs, shakes out through her mouth. His warmth next to her is familiar, as stunningly familiar as it had been to wrap her thighs around his neck, her garrote tight in her hands. It had been predictable, almost choreographed the way they'd fought, the way she'd known, the terrifying way she'd wanted to correct the way he'd been telegraphing.

Steve isn't the only one who had known the Winter Soldier.

But her memories of that time, like her memories of the ballet, are fractured at best, tattered and unclear around the edges until her head pounds and she's choking on the fear and pain.

Neither of them move when the lights go up for the intermission, the chatter rising around them, surrounding them, building a bubble that shouldn't feel as wonderful as it does. Her shoulders come down from around her ears and she finally, finally turns her head.

He's already looking at her, eyes clear and sure. "Clara was your role."

Her breath comes sharp in her lungs, an inhale that makes her dizzy. She doesn't realize she's reached for him, doesn't realize she's grasped the sleeve of his suit until her fingers hurt, pressed against the charcoal grey.

"There was never competition. Not for Clara, not for you. No auditions, just knowledge. Natalia Romanova - Clara in the Nutcracker."

Her skin hums, the flash of her dress, her costume, coming sharper and brighter than she could ever remember. The press onto her toes, practicing, practicing, practicing. She gasps when his hand wraps around hers, holds tight and sure.

"They gave you that. They gave you ballet. They took everything else." She watches him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement. "They took me."

Her fingers clench and everything hurts. Her chest is sharp and tight with it, with what's in front of her and the absolute want.

"They built you up and tore you down and pushed you onto that stage to shine. And shine you did Natalia. Every night. Every time."

"You were there."

"When I could. When I remembered."

The memory is sharp, clear, everything. "You always remembered."

"How could I not?"

They don't stay for the rest of the performance. She takes his offered hand, lets him pull her up, lets him guide her out of the theatre and into a cab. She doesn't recognize the address other than the abstract vague location of it in the city. She should stop. She should leave. She should tell the cabbie to pull over. She has no reason to trust what he's saying is true.

But then his fingers wrap around hers, warm, steady and sure. Her heart thumps.

She may not remember, but one glance tells her he definitely does.

He releases her hand to pay the cabbie, holds the real one out to help her from the cab. This she remembers, his steady touch, the traditional gentlemanliness beneath the cold Soldier. Her mind flashes to a dingy hotel, her back arched, that hand on her flank, her hip, her ass, the broad expanse of his shoulders between her thighs.

The wind is cold, biting at her cheeks, swirling the red of her hair around her face. She hears his chuckle, low, rough and familiar, steps towards it as he raises his metal hand. A hand she can never once remember fearing, even now, even like this. The leather of his glove is cold against her cheek when he slides his thumb along her jaw. Her eyes flutter a little as his fingers tangle in her hair. His hand slides back, curls around the curve of her skull, angles her face.

The first touch of his lips is gentle, dry. A test. Still, it explodes behind her eyelids, forces her closer with the hitch in her chest, the need to hold onto this.

(She remembers tulips, she thinks. Maybe daffodils. Bright yellow in the Russian summer. She remembers the sticky summer evenings in Thailand, the American envoy for Korea and the way he'd meticulously washed every drop of blood from her skin. She remembers tender nights after brutal training, hard and fast behind closed doors. She remembers the high of believing she was too good, they were too good, to ever be caught.

She remembers being very, very wrong.)

"Hey," he murmurs against her mouth, pulls away enough to speak but not enough to step away. She's embarrassed to realize the desperate sound comes from her.

"Natashenka, love. We have time." He smooths his hand over her cheek again, makes her open her eyes to look at him, clear and solid, unafraid and here.

"We finally have all the time in the world."


	2. Chapter 2

James finds it comforting that with all of the changes he's discovered in this upside down new century, some things, some very, very good things, stay the same.

When the wipe had broken, it had shattered, the impact with the Potomac and the frigid water, Captain America and 'end of the line'. It had left him with jumbles of memories, but all of them perfectly in tact and crystal clear.

Including her.

She'd been his first good memory, the way she threw back her head in unbridled laughter, the strength of her twisting around his body, the flare of not knowing which one if them would win this round. He remembers watching her work, the smooth movements, the bright glare of the knife.

He remembers the pale skin of her thighs, the tiny grouping of freckles on the back of her shoulder. He remembers the love on her face when he slung his arm around her shoulders and the fear in her eyes when they'd been discovered.

Natalia.

(Steve had come after, stubborn and thin, determined and much, much bigger than James – Bucky – remembers. Those are good memories too.)

When she'd left her apartment that evening - sloppy, maybe, but this isn't the Red Room's greatest weapon anymore. She's not even a secret - he'd followed, slipped in behind her and watched her take her seat. This, he remembers, the hush of the crowd, the tuning of the instruments, the anticipation.

He only has eyes for her.

She is captivated which, in turn, makes her captivating. Looking back, he knows that's what drives him to that empty seat.

And now, now he has her here, in his arms, giddy with the idea that she's his again. That this time there will be no more snatched moments, no more hidden corners. He is not Hydra's anymore and she is not the Red Room's.

Her eyes are wide and green and wanting. Mesmerizing enough that even his own caution is thrown to the wind, his gentle rebuke about time and implication of forever swallowed in need and greed. He can't remember the last time he'd wanted something as badly, as desperately as he wants her.

Still, he forces himself to wait, to guide her with a gentle hand on the bottom of her spine. It’s a walk, a hike, but she’s done worse in more vicious heels. It’s worse because he wants to turn her around on the stairs, press her into the railing. He wants her dress gone, her legs around his hips. He wants her taste in his mouth, her skin beneath her hands.

But he will wait.

They have all the time in the world.

It doesn’t keep her from trying though, her hands on his waist, his hips, stroking up his chest as he presses her to his door. He slides his hand back into her hair as he fishes in his pocket for his keys. She sighs, complete and utter contentment, and he has to kiss her then. There’s no other alternative as he presses his mouth to hers, slips his tongue in to dip, to tease. It’s history and talent that lets him slip his key in without thought, turns it and leaves them both stumbling into the entry way.

She breaks away when they manage to get inside, backs him up against the door. A flick of her wrist and it’s locked again, the best they can do. The best he’s willing to do as he gets his hands on her again, cups her shoulders under her coat. It drops to the floor a moment later and his arms slips around her waist to the zipper. There’s no hesitation in her face, no hint of doubt as he uses his thumb to trace along her spine.

It makes her shiver, as it had all those years ago, makes her cling to the lapels of his pea coat. He parts her dress easily, lets it tumble to the floor with her coat and cannot help his sharp inhale. She is still stunning, still pale in the dull fairy lights he’d tried to use to do some sort of ‘decorating’ so Mrs Gally down the hall would leave him alone about the whole thing. She’s not flawless, oh hell no, but he figures the fact that it doesn’t take away from her perfection doesn’t need to be pointed out.

He lets his hands flutter over her skin, marks that are hers and the one nasty one that’s his. He presses his thumb against the scar, has to force himself to breathe through the flash of raising the rifle, the emptiness in his heart that is so absent now.

“James.”

He remembers that voice, so, so clearly, the rasp in it and what it means, the clench of her fingers in his jacket. “Go ahead,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

She breathes out, harsh in the quiet of the room. Her fingers clench again in his pea coat before she mirrors his early movement and pushes it off his shoulders. Her fingertips are cold on the skin of his waist when she slides them under his sweater, dances them over his abdominal muscles. He’s put weight on since the Triskelion, since finding a place in DC where he could settle without being conspicuous. It’s enough to fill him out, so he’s no longer sinewy muscle, but built strength.

“Sometimes I think I remember this,” she says as she slides her hands up, takes his sweater with her.

“You will tonight.”

It’s not cocky so much as fact, but it still makes her tremble. He smirks. She is not an easy woman to capture, so, so difficult to take apart, but he knows all of the places to touch her, the gentle stroke of his thumb over her hipbone, the trail of his callouses on the sensitive skin under her breast. She sighs and shakes as he crowds her back. He considers the couch – he considers the counter, to be completely honest – but this, _she_ , is Natalia. She is his. He can do better.

The gentle brush of his hand against the back of her thigh gives her a clue seconds before he’s crouching just a little, fingers clenched around her knee. She wraps her arms around his neck, spreads her thighs when he lifts her, wraps them like vices around his hips. He finds himself absently hoping she leaves a bruise, bruises, something tangible and real. She settles against him in all the right places, fills the holes he’d known were there, known in an abstract he didn’t think about that they were hers.

His hand strokes up her back as she takes his mouth, open and vicious and hot. He hums, cups her head again, holds her there while he heads for the bedroom. He can feel the desperation in her, how she wants, and it’s taking every ounce of his self-control to not pin her against the wall and take her. He has to keep reminding himself he wants to take his time with her, wants to look and touch his fill, build her up and up and up and watch her fall apart in ways he’s rarely allowed himself to in their years together.

“James,” she whispers, slides her mouth along the stubble on his jaw. Her hand is surprisingly gentle when she wraps a fist in his hair and tugs, angles his head enough so she can press her lips to his neck, his throat. “James.”

He forces himself to focus, strides with new purpose through his bedroom door. She unwraps her legs the moment he stops, uses her arms to slide oh so slowly down his front. It’s beauty and torture, and God, God he loves her.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s nothing special about the way they strip after that. It’s efficient in the way they are, until they’re both naked. He cups his hands around her hips, nudges her back until her legs hit the bed. They slide up her torso as she sits, as she shuffles back until her head hits the pillows. He watches her for a moment, stares really. Her hair is so, so red against the sheets, grown out from her bob. Her skin shines as he slips his fingers up her legs, starts at her ankle, tickles a little at that spot behind her knee that is always smooth.

She laughs as she lifts her hands, stretches them above her head and curves her back. His eyes follow the curve of her stomach, the rise of her breast as his hand slides further up her leg, dances to the sensitive skin on her inner thigh. She sighs and shivers, relaxes back against the bed as he settles between her knees, presses them outwards just a little. He presses his mouth to her stomach, trails up between her breasts, pauses at her collarbone.

Her hands thread into her hair. “James.”

He bites then, just gently, just enough. The hitch in her breath is beautiful, wonderful and makes him pause there, really dedicate himself to biting a mark into her skin. She lifts her leg, presses her knee to his hip, writhes beneath him. He gives in just a little, cups her breast in his hand. His fingers dance across her nipple and it zings through her, forcing a moan from her throat. This time it’s his turn to shiver.

“Yes,” he breathes into her skin. “Be as loud as you want _moya lyubov_. There’s no one around to hear you.”

No one around to catch them.

She clenches her fingers on his shoulder, digs her nails in until he hisses. He retaliates by ducking down, taking her other breast into his mouth. He listens to her moan and whine, ignores the tug on his hair, keeps ignoring it when the gentle encouragement turns into a rough yank. Her legs shift restlessly around his hips and she arches up. She’s so, so wet, he can feel it when she rocks against him, desperate for friction.

The minute he brushes his thumb against her clit, her body shudders. His head comes up to meet her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the way her eyes can barely focus.

“Natalia,” he murmurs. “Jesus.”

She whines in her throat, presses her head back into the pillows, her eyes closed. “Again. Come on, James.”

His breath hitches and he pauses for a moment, has to before he groans into her neck and presses his thumb against her. He draws tiny circles once, twice, three times and gets the absolute honour of watching her fall apart.

“Natalia,” he whispers, his mouth gentle against her skin now. She pants into his ear, surprised and languid. It’s been a very, very long time since she’s come that quickly, without much warning at all.

She wraps her hand in his hair so she can catch his eyes. “Again.”

His breath catches, heat flares in his chest and he drops his head to groan into the pillow by her head. He doesn’t bother trailing his mouth down her body this time, just lifts his head and shifts down, settles himself at the end of the bed between her thighs. He thinks for a split second that he should give her time to breathe, to recover, thinks about following his own advice about taking their time.

They can take their time later. He wants her in his mouth.

He avoids her clit at first, still sensitive, licks around and laps up her release. He keeps one broad palm pressed to her pelvis, holds her still while he relearns the feel of her, the taste of her, while he soaks his stubble. She chokes off a few noises before he finally wraps his mouth around her clit, flicks at it with his tongue.

“James. James. More.”

Two fingers slide into her without resistance. He starts up a steady rhythm, lets himself get lost in her, the way her thighs clench against his shoulders, around his ears. Her moans are interspersed with sporadic Russian, words it takes him a few repetitions to work out, how much she missed him, how much she loves him. He lifts his mouth, replaces it with his thumb before she can whine. He presses his mouth to her hip, her stomach, shifts so he’s supported by his forearm, his mouth at her ear.

“I remembered you first,” he whispers, feels her jolt, her hips moving in earnest. He lets her fuck herself on his fingers, swipes tight quick circles over her clit. “You came first, all hair and courage, confidence. The feel of you, the taste of you.”

“James.” Her nails clench on his arm, and he curls his fingers up, matches her rhythm with the ease of practice. She’s flushed down to her breasts, his palm is slick and sticky with her and he knows she’s so, so close.

“I remembered wanting you, how it felt to watch you complete a mission by my side. I remembered the smell of you, mostly gunpowder, sometimes flowers.” 

Her eyes fly open, greedy and hot and full of so much more, of things they were always so careful about putting into words. Her hand slips up his shoulder, cups his cheek before her head falls back, her eyes closing.

“Natalia, love.”

“Yes,” she sighs. “Love.”

He groans and gets his mouth back on her, licks in earnest, sucks and flicks in all of the ways he remembers she likes. When she comes it’s beautiful, her thighs shaking around his head, the split second worry that maybe she’ll crush his skull. She reaches for him in the aftermath, tugs him up until she can get his hand on him.

“Inside,” she says, still panting from her orgasm. “Get inside me.”

He can’t resist that demand and they both know it. He tries to take it slow, tries to savour it, but she is so wet, so hot, and he bottoms out before he means to. The sigh she releases reverberates through him, content and adoring, like this is exactly where she wants to be. It’s certainly where he wants to be, his hands cupping his shoulders as he kisses her, lets her lick the taste of herself from his mouth.

Her muscles are still vibrating as he starts to move, slowly at first, but unable to keep such a steady pace. He tries reminding himself they _have time_ , but with her beneath him, arching into every thrust, meeting him with strength and need, he can’t hold himself back. He groans into her neck, mumbles about how much he loves her, how much he’s missed her. She returns in kind, a mix of Russian and English, French thrown in for good measure.

She slips her hand between them, presses it against herself just as he shakes apart above her, shoves herself over the edge with him. Everything is bright and hot, gunpowder, strength, her hands tight on his hips and hers digging into his shoulders.

She laughs a little as she comes back to herself, turns so she can curl up against his side. “Merry Christmas,” she says, a smirk dancing around her mouth.

He wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulls her closer, presses a kiss to her head. “The best kind of present.”

The sound she releases is a little wounded and pathetic. “I forgot how sappy you are. And here I thought I had my hands full with Steve.”

“We are not mentioning Steve while we’re naked.”

Her eyes sparkle as she raises her head, trails her hand down his stomach. “You sure?”

He growls and flips them, presses her into the mattress again, bites at her neck and her shoulder, traces the marks he’s already left. She sighs and this time he comes when she tugs on his hair. This kiss is gentle, slow, everything they hadn’t been able to hold onto a moment ago. Her hand snakes between them again, grips him where he’s just starting to harden.

“God. I’ve missed you,” she murmurs as she dances her fingers over him. “Round two?”

He slides his hand up her leg. “Slow this time,” he says, bites gently at her bottom lip. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Never again.


End file.
